


The Winter Winds Have Come and Gone

by sarcasm_and_mapleleafs



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, GTA boys being supportive friends, Injury, Set during the 2016-2017 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 22:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12898659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_and_mapleleafs/pseuds/sarcasm_and_mapleleafs
Summary: There's not really a worse way to end a great rookie season than in January with a bad injury, but at least Mitch doesn't have to deal with it alone.





	The Winter Winds Have Come and Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for a somewhat embarrassingly long amount of time because I've been too nervous to post it. Nothing too deep, just some of my favorite hockey players being friends (and as I type this, I see that Stromer just scored his first NHL goal!)
> 
> If you are one of the people tagged in this fic or know them personally, please hit the back button now.

Mitch is carrying the puck up the ice when he spots Crosby coming after him. Ducking to the side, he passes it across to JVR, trying to get out of Crosby’s line of attack. Crosby turns to go after the puck again, but his skate catches on Mitch’s, jerking his leg out at an angle it doesn’t bend. Mitch can’t hold back his cry of pain and shock, feeling something in his knee tear as he goes tumbling down to the ice. The pain catches up with him as soon as he hits the ice, making him gasp for breath through the agony radiating from his knee. He hears a whistle over the pounding in his ears, and then JVR is there. 

“Shit, Marns,” he says, shoving a hovering Crosby away from them. “Are you okay?”

“My knee,” Mitch grits out, trying to get his breathing under control to manage the pain.

“Okay, the trainers are coming,” James says, concern etched in his face as he kneels next to Mitch. “Just stay still, okay?”

Mitch ignores him, trying to convince his body to get up, because if he can just get up he can be fine and keep playing, but when he bends his knee, a sharper stab of pain shoots through it, stealing his breath and leaving him writhing on the ice. Mitch decides it might be a good idea to stay still.

“What happened, Marner?” Jon, their head trainer, asks, finally reaching Mitch.

“I felt something in my knee tear when it twisted,” Mitch says, pushing himself up to a sitting position so he’s not just lying down on the ice.

“Okay,” Jon says, getting down on the ice next to Mitch. “Let me know if what I do hurts, okay?”

Mitch grimaces and braces himself for a long and painful examination, but it’s less than a minute before Jon shakes his head, pulling back with a frown.

“I think we’d better get an MRI,” he says grimly.

“Is something torn?” Mitch asks miserably, letting JVR and Jon help him to his feet.

“Possibly,” Jon admits. “Let’s just see what the scan says.”

“Score a goal for me, would you? Keep my spirits up while I’m stuck on my ass,” Mitch says to JVR.

“Whatever you say, Marns,” JVR laughs, a little sadly, helping Mitch get over the base of the boards to the bench. Jon takes over from there, helping Mitch hobble down the tunnel. He manages a cursory wave back to his teammates as they call out well wishes after him.

 

“Well, I’m afraid it’s not exactly good news,” the Penguins’ team physician, Dr. Vyas, tells Mitch a few hours later. Mitch’s knee has been scanned, prodded, poked, strapped up, and cocooned in ice. Mitch feels about as pleasant as his swollen knee is to look at, and hasn’t really been expecting anything but bad news. “You’ve got pretty significant tears in both your ACL and LCL, I’m afraid.”

“Does that mean surgery?” Mitch asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Yes it does, unfortunately,” Dr. Vyas says. “I’m hoping that the swelling will go down enough that we can do it tomorrow afternoon, get things moving so you can start recovering and get back there as soon as possible.”

“How long will it be until I can play again?”

“Seven or eight months, give or take,” Dr. Vyas tells him. “That’ll put you at about midsummer, so you should be more than ready to go for next season.”

“I’d like a second opinion,” Mitch says quietly, trying to keep his face expressionless. “Not-not that-“

“No, I understand,” Dr Vyas says. “There’s a doctor here who specializes in knee injuries like this, so I was going to call her in to do the surgery. I’ll have her come in and talk to you.”

“Thank you,” Mitch says. Dr. Vyas smiles sympathetically at him, then leaves Mitch alone again. 

 

“Hello, Mitch,” An older woman knocks on the doorframe, coming into the room. “I’m Dr. Byers, I specialize in knee reconstructions like the one you’ll need. The tears are fairly substantial but straightforward, and it looks like you’ve avoided nerve damage.”

“So there’s no option but to get surgery?” Mitch asks.

“I’m afraid so,” she says, smiling gently at him. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this surgery many times and you’re young and healthy, so you should heal well.”

“Okay,” Mitch says, biting his lip hard to keep from showing her how upset he is. Every athlete has to deal with injuries, it’s not that bad.

“Dr. Vyas said he told you, but we’ll have to wait and see if the swelling has gone down enough to operate tomorrow. The sooner we do it, the better.”

“Okay,” Mitch says again, quieter this time. He keeps a neutral expression pasted on his face until the doctor leaves the room, then lets his face fall. He’d been having such a good rookie season, living his childhood dream as a member of the Leafs, and they were on track for the playoffs. But now he gets to look forward to months without hockey and not getting to help his team, not to mention the joys of rehabbing.

To distract himself, Mitch grabs his phone off the table next to him, making a face at the explosion of messages. He starts off by letting his family know the situation, then dives into the messages from other hockey players. He has a message from an unfamiliar number, which turns out to be Sidney Crosby.

Crosby: Sorry about your injury, hope it’s nothing too serious. 

Mitch texts back a simple thanks, not really wanting to get into a conversation with Crosby. He’s idolized Crosby for years, but he can’t help being a little mad at him, even though he logically knows Crosby didn’t mean to injure him. A large chunk of the other messages seem to be from his Leafs teammates, all pretty much asking the same thing, so he decides to keep it simple and answer their questions en masse using the group chat.

Me: Congrats on the win guys  
Me: I tore my ACL and LCL, surgery probably tomorrow and I’ll be back for next season  
Mo: I’m sorry Marns ☹  
Matts: That fucking sucks  
Gards: Well fuck  
Marty: I’m sorry, that’s shitty luck. Are they doing the surgery here or in Toronto  
Me: Thanks guys  
Me: Here, so I guess I’ll see you all next week when I get back  
JVR: Sorry Marns. I’ll keep on scoring for you  
Willy: Damn. Wish we could come see you now but we’re flying in an hour  
Mo: ^^ We’ll come visit as soon as you’re back  
Matts: Good luck with the surgery  
Freddie: Hope everything goes smoothly. Feel better and we’ll see you soon  
Marty: Let us know how it goes  
Me: Thanks and I will. Travel safely

Mitch is still in the process of responding to other messages from players around the league when his phone rings.

“Hey, Davo,” he answers.

“Dylan wants to know what hospital you’re in,” Connor says without preamble.

“Uh, UPMC, why?” Mitch asks.

“He’s driving in from Erie,” Connor says. “Matts told me that you’re staying in Pittsburgh tonight, so Stromer and I are going to come see you.”

“Why did Matts tell you that?” Mitch isn’t sure if the drugs are making him a little slow, or if Connor’s just not making a lot of sense. Sure, Erie isn’t that far away from Pittsburgh, but Connor’s game last night was in Detroit.

“Because my flight should land in Pittsburgh in about an hour and a half,” Connor says. “Matts suggested I see if I could see you since the Leafs are traveling.”

“Hold on,” Mitch says, somehow still overwhelmed by the whirlwind that is Connor McDavid. “You and Stromer are coming to Pittsburgh tonight? How and why?”

“Well, I have a game against the Pens tomorrow so I was already going, and I’m just going to go to the hospital and see you when I get there. Dylan doesn’t have a game for three days and his practice tomorrow is optional, so he’s driving out to Pittsburgh,” Connor explains patiently.

“Okay, you I understand, but what is Dylan doing? He should go to that practice,” Mitch argues.

“You can be the one to tell him that, because I’m sure as hell not arguing with him. And if it was Dylan who was hurt only a short drive from you, wouldn’t you want to go see him? You both were constantly Skyping and texting me when I broke my collarbone, we’re just taking advantage of the opportunity to see you in person.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need-“ Mitch tries.

“Mitch, you’re on the Leafs, you’ve been having a fantastic season, the Leafs are almost definitely going to make the playoffs, except now your season’s over,” Connor says bluntly. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m not, but it’s not like either of you have magical healing powers,” Mitch says, fully aware that he’s being a bit of an asshole, but he’s not sure he wants two of his best friends to see him like this.

“Mitch, if you really don’t want us to come, we won’t, but we’d just like to spend time with you and cheer you up a little bit,” Connor says, pulling out his captain voice. Mitch sighs, rubbing at his thigh, which is starting to tighten up uncomfortably.

“I’m not going to be great company right now,” he warns, already starting to cave to Connor. 

“Yeah, and I was absolutely terrible to have a conversation with after I got injured,” Connor says. “We don’t care if you’re in a bad mood, we want to be there to support you through this.”

“I guess I’ll see you in a couple of hours, then,” Mitch says.

“Keep your head up, Marns,” Connor says. “Dylan will probably be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”

Before Connor can hang up, Mitch says, “Ten or fifteen minutes? Erie is like two hours from Pittsburgh. I don’t think even he goes like five times the speed limit.”

“Well technically, it would be eight to twelve times the speed limit. He left not long after you got hurt when it became clear you’d be spending the night there,” Connor says. 

Ignoring the slight at his math, Mitch barks out a laugh. “That sounds like Dylan. See you later, Connor.”

“Bye, Marns,” Connor says, hanging up. Mitch pokes around at the bed controls, trying to get it into a more upright position. 

A nurse walks into the room, picking up Mitch’s chart and glancing over it. “Looks like it’s time for a break from the ice packs, huh?”

“Sure,” Mitch says dully. Between the painkillers and the ice, he can’t feel anything from his knee, which is probably preferable. 

“Can I get anything else for you?” She starts removing the ice packs layered around Mitch’s knee.

“No, I think I’m okay,” Mitch says. The nurse pulls the blanket gently back over his injured leg and turns to leave, but her departure is interrupted by Dylan skidding into the room. 

“Whoa!” The nurse jumps back, startled. “Who are you?”

“It’s okay, he’s my friend,” Mitch intercedes before Dylan can get himself in more trouble. “Who should know better by now than to go sprinting through a hospital.”

“Sorry,” Stromer says sheepishly. 

“Please try to avoid murdering my patient,” the nurse says, making a hasty retreat.

“So, how are you doing, Mitchy?” Dylan asks, plunking himself down in one of the chairs and propping his feet up on the edge of the bed.

“Are you incapable of acting mature for more than five seconds?” Mitch asks, smiling despite himself. 

“Yep,” Dylan says, popping the “p.” “So? How’s the knee? Looks still attached, so that’s something, right?”

“I guess so,” Mitch sighs, his good mood vanished. “Torn ACL and LCL. I’m having surgery tomorrow, hopefully.”

“So it seems like our seasons are ending up about the same level of shitty, eh?” Dylan says with a grin. 

“Hey, at least you’re still playing,” Mitch rolls his eyes. “I don’t think being in juniors is exactly the same as having season ending surgery.”

“Neither of us will be playing in the NHL, so,” Dylan shrugs, “totally the same.”

“You’re an asshole. Why did I even want you to come here?” Mitch asks.

“Well, technically you didn’t, necessarily. I came well before I heard from either you or Davo,” Dylan grins.

“You’re right. In that case, get out,” Mitch says sarcastically. 

“What are you going to do about it?” Dylan asks, lifting an eyebrow and nudging Mitch in the ribs with his foot.

Mitch raises an eyebrow in return. “You know that I could just press this button to get the nurse in here and have her kick you out, right?”

“Okay, yeah, didn’t think of that,” Dylan admits. “Still, you’re not going to do that, because I am your entertainment and distraction.”

“You telling me that our seasons are equally awful isn’t exactly entertainment or a distraction,” Mitch points out. “It’s kinda just you being an asshole.”

“That’s why we’re friends!” Dylan says cheerfully.

“I’m not entirely sure why we’re friends, actually,” Mitch mutters. “Anyways, you left to come here, like, ages ago. If it was before you heard from me or Davo, why did you start driving halfway across the state?”

“Matthews texted me,” Dylan says, pulling out his phone. “He said, and I quote, “Marns is hurt pretty bad and the trainers are pretty sure he’s going to be staying here but we’re traveling and I’m pretty sure he’d do better with some company if you wanted to drive out.” Does he have an obsession with the qualifier ‘pretty’?”

“First of all, I’m somewhat impressed that you called it a qualifier and not just a word. Second, Matts worries too much. Third, why is Matts texting you? Fourth, why would you listen to him and drive over here?”

“Matts and I text regularly to compare embarrassing stories about you. It’s really a great relationship. And, Mitch, did you see the video of you getting injured? Because, buddy, it looked really awful,” Dylan says, far more somber than usual. “Human legs aren’t meant to move the way yours did, and you were kind of out of it for awhile.”

“Really? Human legs aren’t meant to move the way mine did? Please, tell me more about that. The agonizing pain in my leg didn’t tip me off about that at all,” Mitch says sarcastically, not used to dealing with an openly concerned Stromer. “I didn’t think I was that out of it, though.”

“It took awhile for them to call play to a stop, and you just weren’t moving that entire time,” Dylan says slowly.

“Really? I thought it was just a couple of seconds,” Mitch frowns, thinking back to those moments.

“Yeah, like, thirty. The Pens almost scored a goal before the whistle. It would’ve been a stupid ass goal considering you were unmoving on the ice and JVR got distracted by you being mildly dead,” Dylan complains. “Fuck those refs.”

“Dylan, please tell me that you’re not going to fight Crosby to defend me or something like that,” Mitch says, because that would 100% be something Dylan would do.

“Would I do that?” Dylan asks, attempting to adopt an innocent expression, which doesn’t really work. Mitch just raises an eyebrow at him. Dylan rolls his eyes, but concedes. “Alright, fine. But I’m not going to. I’m just saying that it was shitty of the refs for play to continue so long and you looked dead. Seriously, though, how’s the knee feeling?”

“I already told you it’s fucked and I need surgery,” Mitch says, a hint of exasperation leaking into his tone.

“Well, yeah, I know that,” Dylan replies. “I was more asking how it’s feeling right now.”

“It doesn’t,” Mitch laughs a little at Dylan’s alarmed expression. “It’s fine, dude, chill. I’m on pretty strong drugs and they’ve been shoving so much ice at me that I can’t feel it at all right now. Not that I’m complaining, of course, considering that the last thing I felt from it was significant pain.”

Dylan’s grin returns. “Yeah, that seems like an improvement. Also, speaking of,” he nods at the nurse, returning with yet another set of ice packs.

“Yay,” Mitch says unenthusiastically. Dylan whistles quietly when she moves the blanket to get to his knee, revealing the impressive swelling and bruising there. Mitch glances at his knee very briefly, swallowing hard at just how awful it looks. Thankfully, he still can’t really feel the joint itself, but the cold settling onto it does feel nice. The nurse leaves without a single word, just replacing the blanket and leaving. “I think you scared her off,” he comments to Dylan, who still hasn’t taken his gaze off his knee. “Dylan?” he prompts.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dylan looks up to meet his eyes. “Damn, that looks really fucked. And in my defense, if she can’t handle one person running, should she really be a nurse?”

“You’re a large hockey player who nearly ran her over when she wasn’t expecting it,” Mitch rolls his eyes. “And, yes, hello, of course it looks awful. Generally bad injuries tend to look bad, especially ones that need surgery.”

“Shut up,” Dylan mutters. “Look, can I get anything for you? I’m sure there’s a vending machine with Skittles or chocolate or something if you want it.”

“I would, but considering I’m going to be off my feet for awhile, I’ll probably need to be careful about keeping my weight down,” Mitch says practically.

“Oh my god, no,” Dylan yanks his feet off the bed, getting to his feet. “For starters, you’re tiny, and it’s one pack of Skittles. It’s not going to kill you.” He leaves the room before Mitch can manage any further protests. Mitch rolls his eyes yet again, grabbing his phone and smiling a little. Dylan is a terrible influence, but he can be right from time to time. When Stromer makes his way back into the room, triumphantly clutching two packs of Skittles, Mitch takes a picture of him. Captioning it “Who needs diet plans when you have friends who get you Skittles,” he posts it on his Snapchat story before Stromer can wrestle his phone out of his grip, even though that doesn’t stop him from trying. 

“Ah, ah, get off!” Mitch cries, attempting to twist away from Stromer. “You’re going to make me tear my IV out!”

“You are no fun,” Dylan complains, but he pulls back immediately, eyes flicking over Mitch to evaluate how he’s doing.

“I’m fine, just no wrestling for the time being,” Mitch says, triumphantly showing Stromer the picture of him. Thankfully, the movement doesn’t seem to have jostled his bad leg too much, but it is starting to get a little uncomfortable again. “Oh, and there’s already a reply from…Davo. How much you want to bet it’s him saying something about how I should stay on my diet plan?”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Stromer says quickly.

“’Be careful not to let Stromer go overboard with junk, especially since you won’t be able to work out until you’re healed,’” Mitch reads. “Does he ever turn off his captain mode?”

“I don’t think so. He’s been trying to captain me through this whole season with me being down in Erie, and quite frankly, it’s getting a little old. Did he pull out the captain routine on you with this?” Dylan asks.

“Yes, he did,” Mitch grins, always down to commiserate with Dylan about Davo. “He totally captained me into having you two come visit. He’s unfortunately good at it.”

“I worry about him a little sometimes, though,” Dylan admits.

“Because he never turns off the captain mode and always worries about everybody but himself?” Mitch asks. “Yeah, me too. He sounded a little tired when he called, actually, but of course he’s going to be coming here to try to make me feel better instead of getting sleep himself.”

“Exactly. I love Davo, but I’m worried he’s going to burn himself out.”

“I can pretend that I’m really tired not that long after he gets here so he doesn’t stay out too late,” Mitch suggests.

Dylan looks like he’s trying not to laugh, instead tossing Mitch the Skittles packets he’d still been holding. “That doesn’t seem like it’s going to be too much of a stretch, buddy. You look like you could fall asleep within five seconds.”

“I blame the painkillers,” Mitch says, gesturing at his IV. “Also, I fucking hate needles. I fucking hate all of this.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Dylan looks actually sympathetic for once. “Hey, just think about it this way: if you didn’t have the IV, you’d still be in agonizing pain!”

“Yeah, uh,” Mitch stares at him for a beat, “that doesn’t really cheer me up that much? My options are an IV with painkillers and then surgery and more of the same, or extreme pain. I gotta say, I don’t love the choices.”

“I’m sure Davo can captain you into feeling better when he gets here, but for now, you’ve got me, and I’m not sure what I can offer you other than Skittles, my company, and commiseration that this really sucks and I’m sorry you have to miss so much time,” Dylan says. 

“No, no, you’re great, and I’m actually really glad that you’re here, because I might scream if Davo tries to captain me right now. I need some time to acknowledge how much this sucks before I move on and start working towards getting back in shape. Actually, do you mind if I vent for a minute?” Mitch asks. 

“Absolutely, that’s what I’m here for,” Dylan says. “If it’ll make you feel better, vent until your face turns blue.”

“I mean, I’m absolutely really upset that I’m missing time especially since we’re going to go to the playoffs, I know we are, except I’m not, and if the Leafs win the Cup I won’t be a part of it, and if we don’t win, I’ll never know if I could’ve helped. But it’s driving me nuts already – and it’s only been a few hours – that there’s nothing I can do right now. I just have to wait and hope the swelling goes down enough that they can do the surgery tomorrow, and then I have to wait until it heals enough to start rehabbing. Once I can start doing physical therapy, it’ll be better because I can actually do something to control my life, but right now? I can’t fucking do anything. I get to just lie around on my ass, and you know me – that’s not me. I need to always be doing stuff.”

“That really fucking sucks. I know it goes contrary to everything we usually do, but maybe try to look at it as a way to relax? There’s nothing you can do, so attempt to not worry about it?” Dylan says, wincing at Mitch’s expression. “I know, I know. But try?”

“It’s a good idea, but I doubt my brain will get on board,” Mitch sighs, rubbing at his thigh in an attempt to lessen the discomfort in his leg. “Thanks for trying, though.”

“Hey, at least it hopefully won’t be too long before you start your rehab work,” Dylan offers. “And you’ll be able to do some stuff in the gym with your teammates as long as it doesn’t involve your lower body.”

“Woohoo, I can’t wait to hobble around the weight room on crutches and probably end up breaking my face,” Mitch mutters.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Matthews will make a diving catch to save your precious face,” Dylan says. “Or maybe Andersen, he’s good at making impossible saves.”

“You’re incredibly unhelpful, you know that?” Mitch sighs, a faint smile playing out on his lips as he shifts uncomfortably in the bed.

“Hey, I was going to bring video games to distract you, but I didn’t think the hospital would be super chill about that,” Dylan protests. “I thought about it, though, and that’s what matters.”

“Knowing you, you probably thought about it when you were halfway from Erie already. And I don’t think the thought is what matters in this case, because you talking about how you thought about bringing video games doesn’t really distract me,” Mitch points out.

“Hush and eat your Skittles and appreciate me,” Dylan says, pointing at the yet unopened candy lying in Mitch’s lap. When Mitch opens his mouth to say something, Dylan lunges forward and grabs one of the bags, ripping it open and throwing a Skittle at Mitch. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the floor on the other side of the bed, sending Dylan into a fit of laughter.

“You know you have to get up and pick that up, right?” Mitch asks him, reaching to snag the opened bag from Dylan. The movement sends a shockwave of pain radiating down his leg, and he aborts the motion, slumping back against the pillows, gasping and clutching at the blanket.

“Mitch? Mitch? Mitchy!” He can hear Dylan calling his name, sounding increasingly worried, but now that the pain has him in its clutches, it’s very unwilling to let him go. “I’m calling for a nurse.”

“No!” Mitch manages between waves of agony. “It’s fine, just-just give me a minute.”

“Mitch-“ Dylan tries again, leaning forward to reach the button to call the nurse’s station.

“I’m fine, really,” Mitch says, the pain slowly starting to abate. “Just shouldn’t have moved like that.”

“Okay, I don’t think you can claim you’re fine while you’re waiting to have surgery. Also, you are the same color as the sheets and look like a moderate gust of wind on your knee would leave you screaming in pain. Can I please call a nurse to see if you can get more painkillers or something?” Dylan asks, with a look in his eyes that looks distinctly like pleading.

“Fine,” Mitch agrees grudgingly. He doubts the nurse will be able to do much, but he isn’t exactly a big fan of the waves of pain radiating from his leg. Dylan finally moves his legs off of the bed, reaching over Mitch to press the button and then squeezing Mitch’s shoulder comfortingly.

“What can I do for you?” The same nurse from before comes back in, glaring slightly in Dylan’s direction.

“When can he have more painkillers?” Dylan asks, gesturing at Mitch. “I think they must be wearing off, because he’s in a lot of pain right now.”

“Let me see,” the nurse says, her expression softening slightly as she looks at Mitch. Checking over his chart, she smiles sympathetically. “Yep, looks like your last dosage is wearing off. I can give you more in about five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Mitch says, pathetically grateful.

“Also, he kind of tried to reach across the room and ended up jostling his leg, which is what caused him to be in more pain than he already was,” Dylan says, the traitorous rat.

“Oh dear,” The nurse puts the chart down, looking at Mitch’s fucked knee. “I’ll go get your painkillers, and have a doctor come check on your knee to be on the safe side, make sure you didn’t damage anything further.”

“See? I have good ideas once in a while,” Dylan says, some of the tension in his face easing when the nurse leaves the room.

“Once in a very long while. Like every fifteen years or so,” Mitch chirps. “But seriously, Dylan, thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” Dylan asks, passing Mitch his opened bag of Skittles at last.

“Getting drugs? Gee, thanks, Stromer.”

“Shut up, moron,” Dylan complains. “Here I am, trying to be a good friend, and you’re just ungrateful.”

“Believe me, I am incredibly grateful for painkillers at the moment,” Mitch admits through gritted teeth, reaching for his knee to try to relieve the pain. 

“Hey!” Dylan snaps, grabbing his wrist before he can touch it. “That’s going to make it worse, not better. Just hang tight for another minute and it’ll get better.”

“You didn’t have to tell her about me being a spastic idiot,” Mitch mutters resentfully. 

“I kind of did, because I don’t really want you to have problems further down the line,” Dylan says. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Here we go,” the nurse tells them as she comes back in, injecting something into Mitch’s IV line. “You should be feeling better momentarily. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you,” Mitch mutters, the tension flooding out of his body as the drugs enter his bloodstream, easing his pain. The nurse makes a note on his chart, then exits quickly.

“Feeling better there, Marns?” Dylan asks.

“Hmm, yeah,” Mitch says around a yawn. “Think I’m gonna pass out, though. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll be here when you wake up,” Dylan assures him, taking the mostly uneaten Skittles and putting them on the bedside table. Mitch nods sleepily, letting his eyes slip shut.

 

“-sure he’s doing okay?” Mitch hears Davo’s voice asking quietly.

“He’ll be fine. Not happy right now, but he’s dealing,” Dylan replies, equally quiet. “Oh hey, I think he’s waking up.”

“Mitch? You awake?” Davo asks, and there’s a warm, callused hand on Mitch’s arm.

“Hey, Davo,” Mitch mumbles. “I’m awake.”

“You going to open your eyes, or just lie there pretending to sleep?” Dylan sounds amused, and Mitch feels the bed shift slightly, probably as Dylan props his feet back up.

“Hmm, either sounds good,” Mitch says, but he opens his eyes and looks at his friends. “How long was I asleep?”

“Like two hours. Connor got here about half an hour ago, we’ve been waiting on your lazy ass since then,” Dylan tells him.

“Well, sorry,” Mitch says sarcastically, levering the bed into a seated position and reaching for a glass of water. 

“Shut up, Stromer,” Davo says. “And get your feet off the bed, it’s unsanitary. So, Mitch, how are you feeling?” Connor leans forward, giving Mitch his intense captain stare.

“I’m on good drugs, so I’m doing just fine,” Mitch pastes a smile on his face, sipping at the water to relieve his dry throat.

“I’m glad to hear that, but I more meant how you’re dealing with it,” Connor says, then jumps when a Skittle hits him in the face. “Ah! Dylan, come on!”

“Oops,” Dylan says, completely monotone as he pops another Skittle into his mouth. “My hand slipped.”

“Weren’t those supposed to be for me?” Mitch asks, gesturing for Dylan to pass the candy over.

“I’d say come over here and get them yourself, but…” Dylan pulls his feet off the bed, leaning forward to give Mitch the unopened package and one about half-full. “Sorry, I ate a few, I can get you more later.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to try that again,” Mitch agrees, immediately stuffing several Skittles in his mouth.

“Again?” Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing!” Dylan and Mitch say in unison. Connor looks unimpressed, giving Mitch his patented captain stare.

“Dylan, the drugs are robbing me of the ability to resist the captain look,” Mitch mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Help.”

“Mitch,” Connor says flatly, keeping eye contact with him.

“Fine, fine,” Mitch relents grudgingly. “I may have lunged across the room trying to grab the Skittles from Dylan earlier but I didn’t damage anything and it’s all fine.”

“Dylan?” Connor prompts, switching his gaze over to Dylan, who lasts even less time against the look than Mitch had.

“He jerked his knee a little bit but a doctor checked it over while he was sleeping and said it was no worse than it already had been,” Dylan admits. 

“It really wasn’t a big deal, Davo,” Mitch adds.

“Fine, if a doctor verified that. But you never answered my question earlier,” Connor says.

“Wait, what was your question?” Mitch asks blankly, looking at Dylan for help, who just gives him a confused look. “Seriously, what did you ask me?”

“Like five minutes ago, I asked you how you were dealing with being injured,” Connor says, putting a hand on Mitch’s shin. “Do you not remember that? Did you hit your head when you fell? Did they check you for concussion symptoms?”

“Oh, yeah, that,” Mitch says. “I didn’t hit my head, I’m fine. I’m just on a lot of drugs.”

“Okay, I guess that makes sense,” Connor relents. Mitch nods and pops a few more Skittles in his mouth, then realizes that both of them are still staring at him.

“What?” he asks, looking from Connor to Dylan and back.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Connor says patiently.

“Oh, yeah, that,” Mitch laughs at himself. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m upset, but I’ll be okay. I’ve got many more seasons to come, it’s not like I’m 39 and on the verge of retirement.”

“That’s a much more sensible attitude than I had when I broke my collarbone,” Connor says, frowning at him. “Are you sure you’re actually alright?”

“No, Connor, I’m not ‘alright,’” Mitch says, a little snappishly. “I have to get surgery tomorrow and I’m really not looking forward to that, but until I can start doing rehab work, there’s nothing I can actually do. Might as well focus on the reasons this isn’t the worst thing ever.”

“Good for you, Mitchy,” Davo smiles. “I’m proud of you.”

“Proud of me for Crosby getting his skate tangled up in mine and fucking up my knee? Wow, thanks,” Mitch says sarcastically.

“You know what I mean. I’m glad you’re making an effort to look on the bright side,” Connor says, still in his captain voice.

“Technically, for the record, he isn’t looking on the bright side, he’s just trying to not look at the worst parts,” Dylan points out. 

Connor shoots a glare at Dylan. “Thanks for being so helpful, Stromer. Mitch, don’t listen to him.”

“Look, Connor,” Mitch sighs, wishing he could be sitting in a chair so he doesn’t have to look up at his friend, “I really appreciate you coming out here, but what I need right now is my friends, not an extra captain. This really fucking sucks and no amount of captaining is going to fix that, so I’d prefer it if you stopped. I just want to spend a few hours hanging out with my friends and not thinking about any of this.”

Connor takes a moment to respond, glancing down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I was just trying to help. I understand how shitty it is to deal with something like this, but I guess it’s not exactly the best to be in captain mode all the time, is it?”

“Nope, it gets old,” Dylan says, not unkindly.

“I know you get how much being injured sucks, but I have the next seven to eight months to be constantly reminded of that. For now, chilling with two of my friends who I don’t get to see much sounds far better.”

“So, Davo, tell us about how you’re going to fight Crosby for Mitch tomorrow,” Dylan grins, making purposeful eye contact with Connor as he lifts his feet back onto the bed.

“I’m not going to fight Crosby!” Connor protests. “Neither of us are exactly fighters. And-“

“-it would be absolutely hilarious to watch.” Mitch interjects. “The two of you just flailing away at each other would probably make my week.”

“The best hockey players of their generation, completely failing at fighting. Top ten season highlights, right there,” Dylan agrees, laughing at the image.

“I feel like one of them would end up swinging wildly and falling over from it,” Mitch snorts to himself, picturing Connor, his face a mask of intense concentration, putting all his force into throwing a punch, completely missing Crosby, and face planting.

“You two are awful friends,” Connor informs them loftily. “For the record, I could totally win a fight against Crosby.”

“Against Crosby, maybe, but against anybody who actually knows how to fight? You’re dead meat, McJesus,” Dylan shakes his head, smiling at Connor’s affronted expression. 

“Hmm, how about I just don’t fight Crosby, eh?” Connor suggests.

“No, that’s no fun,” Mitch says around a yawn. “Gotta be entertaining.”

“Alternative suggestion: I score some goals to entertain you. Seem acceptable?” 

“I suppose,” Mitch sighs exaggeratedly, then rubs at his eyes.

“You’re looking pretty tired again, Marns. Do you want us to go so you can get some sleep?” Dylan asks.

“No, no, I want to spend time with you,” Mitch protests.

“Mitch, you’re tired and you have surgery scheduled for tomorrow. You really should get some rest,” Connor insists. “Also, we’re not flying out of Pittsburgh until late morning after tomorrow’s game, so I’ll try to come see you after your surgery before the game, but if not, I’ll definitely see you before I leave.”

“I’m just going to rent a hotel room and stay here for tomorrow,” Dylan shrugs. “You’re not rid of me just yet. Also, I’m pretty sure we’re going to get kicked out pretty soon, it’s getting kind of late.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Mitch says, yawning yet again. As tired as he is, staying up and talking with his friends is a far more appealing prospect than spending the night alone in the hospital, but knowing they’ll be back tomorrow makes it a little easier. “Thanks for coming, guys. You don’t know how much it helped.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Dylan says, winking and pulling out a Kit Kat, which he hands to Mitch. “That, and supplying you with food.”

“We’ve got your back, Mitch,” Connor says, getting up and leaning over to give Mitch a somewhat awkward hug. 

“Thanks,” Mitch says again, hugging Connor back as much as he can without moving too much of his body. “You guys are the best, really.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos or especially comments would absolutely make my day, so please let me know if you enjoyed this!


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